


Been Gone Back from my Old Ways

by MS_Mayhem



Series: Still Neither One of Us has Died [2]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alex Rider is a Little Shit, Alex's knack for chaos and destruction, BAMF Alex Rider, Domestic, Domestic Yassen Gregorovich, Dumpster Cats, Family, Fluff, I don't know how toddlers work im sorry, Implied Sexual Content, Jack Cameo - Freeform, M/M, Parenthood, mentions of serial killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29354886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MS_Mayhem/pseuds/MS_Mayhem
Summary: Yassen has beeen looking for a reason to retire, and what better reason is there, than to raise a baby?
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Series: Still Neither One of Us has Died [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2156292
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Been Gone Back from my Old Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Orville Peck  
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction using character from the Alex Rider series, which belongs to Anthony Horowitz. I do not claim ownership over the characters or the world of Alex Rider.
> 
> Maybe some mild spoliers of Russian Roulette.
> 
> Also I genuinely don't know how babies work oops
> 
> Enjoy!

For Marilyn Jackson an abortion was out of the question. She knew, of course, that she could never raise the child, not in the state she was in. She was in a mental hospital, and she knew that rehabilitation would be long.

Separation from Jim -- McCready as she called him now, was only the first step. It had been difficult, and he had been her lifeline, her connection to God, and the only way she would be forgiven for the sins of her youth. At least, that’s what she had thought at the time.

Now, she could see that McCready was nothing more than a sinner, a man who had used the word of God for his own gain, a false idol. 

There was a preacher in the facility she was in, a young man, with kind eyes and a good heart. He helped her find God once more. The head nurse was an older lady, with grey hair pulled back into a low bun, and pronounced smile lines, who Marilyn had come to see as an almost maternal figure. The entire staff of the hospital were compassionate and accommodating, set on helping her get better.

Three women had come to visit her once. She recognised one of them from the Church, a dark haired woman with a strong nose and pale skin. She was the one taking the lead, reintroducing herself as SSA Christina Fisher with the FBI, before explaining the situation. She was brief and not very detailed, but the new information left Marilyn reeling. The other two women were both with the CIA, and all three of them were gentle and patient with her.

In the end, Marilyn only asked one question:

“The boy that you had undercover. Can I talk to him?”

Three weeks later she had received a letter, black ink on cream card, the hand-writing messy with youth. The letter was long, spanning over multiple pages, and she read and reread the words over and over again.

The letter had started with a small introduction, and then went into a tirade of apologies and explanations, followed by more apologies.

Three days later, Marilyn had written a letter of her own, and the nurses were kind enough to send it for her. 

From there, a tentative acquaintance had started. They never saw each other, nor did they phone; they did not even write emails, instead opting to communicate only through handwritten letters.

Marilyn had learned more about the boy, he was five years younger than her, born and raised in London, and had a boyfriend he loved very dearly. Five months ago, the latter would have been met with revulsion, but Father Miller had given her a new view on life and love. 

She had told Alex about the baby, and her decisions regarding it. She would not abort the fetus, nor would she keep the baby. She knew she could not provide a safe and stable home, and if she was being honest with herself, she did not want a baby, at least not in that stage of her life. 

Originally, the baby would be given up for adoption -- a closed procedure through a reputable agency that would be sure to place the baby in a safe and loving home. Of course, plans changed, and in early april Alex and Yassen flew to California to welcome the baby into their family.

They had never really talked about kids before, but, throughout Marilyn’s pregnancy, they both quietly contemplated an expansion to their small family, not quite daring to tackle the topic, until, one day, they both came to the same conclusion independently from each other: they wanted to adopt the baby.

Back when Yassen was still a young boy named Yasha, living in a small village in Russia, having children was the obvious course of action, but, after his life was taken from him, his views had changed.

Yasha could not have children living in poverty in the grimy streets of Moscow, and raising a baby while under the control of Sharkovsky was out of the question. He was too young anyway.

But then Yasha became Yassen the ruthless contract killer, and he knew he could never hold responsibility for a child. It would be a weakness he could not afford, and forcing a child into his lifestyle would be cruel. Yassen had banished the sheer thought of children from his mind, even if, looking back, he knew that subconsciously, he always wanted a child. 

But Yassen had been given a way out, for the most part anyway.

Coming to an agreement with MI6 had been easier than expected, and Yassen had given his life to them for a year, filled with constant jobs for them, without any form of payment. He had to receive some sort of punishment for his life with SCORPIA. After that year, he began a freelance career, with the condition that his assignments were restricted to a list of intelligence services and organisations provided by the MI6.

Mostly, Yassen worked for the roster of British Intelligence Agencies, the CIA, and Interpol; although he did have a particularly long and grueling job for the Security and Intelligence Division of Singapore.

But Yassen would have little problem retiring, and, if he was being honest with himself, he was looking for an excuse to lay down the gun. He was getting old, although he would never let Alex hear him admit that.

Marilyn had been ecstatic when Alex suggested they adopt the baby, and all the arrangements had been quickly made.

And, on April seventeenth, Daria Yassenova Rider-Gregorovich was born. 

Alex and Yassen spent three months in California with their new daughter, deeming it too early to take the child on a plane, especially a cross-continental flight, even if they were taking a private jet.

Daria -- or Dasha, as they called her -- was a happy baby, with blonde hair, warm brown eyes framed by long eyelashes, and a bright smile that was frequently reciprocated. 

They had rented a house in the suburbs, with the beach as their backyard. Their time in California was wonderful, and Yassen had somehow befriended the gaggle of middle-aged women who jogged through the streets every morning; he joined their running group -- even if they went too slow for his liking -- and became maybe a bit too invested in the neighbourly gossip.

Alex would surf occasionally, and Yassen would watch from where he sat on a large beach towel with Dasha on his lap, under the protection of a sun tent. Dasha would smile and coo and hold a tight grip on the little stuffed bear she had gotten to her birth.

They liked walking along the strip of beach to catch the sunset, and Alex was already planning a few paintings capturing their time in California. 

Yassen would take care of their baby girl during the night, he only slept four hours anyway, and Alex took over in the morning when Yassen went for his jog and cooked breakfast for them. 

Alex had to disappear and save the world for a week during the third month of their stay, Joe Byrne had personally requested his help, and the target of the new megalomaniac was once again children. 

Alex had gone undercover as a servant in the California McMansion of crazed multi-billionaire Jeffree Weston, and had been caught while holding some  _ very  _ incriminating evidence. 

Alex was taken prisoner, and questioned by the designated eccentric deputy villain -- a man that was as wide as he was tall, with a shiny head and a weird obsession with bastinado -- before being bundled into a plane on sore feet, and flown over to Weston’s evil production headquarters in Mexico.

Alex had freed himself from his restraints, and hijacked the plane, directing it so that it would crash into the center of the facility, before jumping out with a parachute, and landing in the middle of the Sonoran desert. By the time he found civilization, he was once again severely dehydrated and reddened with sun exposure, the soles of his bare feet burnt and bruised. 

The whole business was quickly wrapped up, and the only punishment Alex received for the reckless havoc he caused was a verbal reprimanding, and a pesky stay in hospital that Alex decided to cut short when he broke out during the night, hitchhiked his way along the California highways.

Alex hitched a ride with an unsettling man, knowing immediately that something was off about him, but getting in anyway. The man -- who had introduced himself as Ed-- drove off the freeway and into the wilderness, before pulling out a gun, and aiming it at Alex’s head, ordering him to strip, only to be met with an amused smirk.

“Go ahead.” Alex challenged, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Pull the trigger.”

Ed insisted that he had no qualms about killing him, and fucking his still warm corpse. He was going to have his way with the boy’s dead body anyway. Alex merely raised an eyebrow, daring him to come through on his threat.

Ed pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

“You’re gonna need this.” Alex was smug as he held up the missing magazine; he had noticed the gun the moment he entered the car, wedged between the driver's seat and the center console, and had distracted Ed with wide eyes and a tale of desperation while he stole the magazine.

The man was stunned, and was about to lunge at Alex, but the boy was quicker, hitting Ed in the face, using the magazine to strengthen his already powerful blow. The bones crunched underneath the punch, and Ed was left too shocked to react to the pain of his broken face. Alex whipped out a scalpel he had stolen from the hospital, and rammed it through the man’s hand, fastening it to the dashboard, before stealing the gun and loading it.

“Behave.” Alex kept the gun pointed at the man, while he picked up the phone from the center console, and dialled nine-one-one. 

Ed, it turned out, was short for Edwin Egan Wallace, a new serial killer that had recently come to the attention of the FBI. 

Alex arrived home just after sunrise, happy to be reunited with his family. Yassen fussed over Alex, as the boy told him about his week, while balancing Dasha on his lap.

Yassen went for his jog with the neighbourhood ladies, and came home to find both Alex and Dasha fast asleep on the armchair where he had left him. Quickly, he cooked up some eggs for breakfast, only waking Alex once they were done.

Their flight first took them to New York, where they stayed for a weekend, before continuing on the next leg of their journey. They had been nervous about how Dasha would react to the flight, especially the long-haul flight over the Atlantic.But the girl was resilient, gleeful and inquisitive, and the only real problem on their flights was the fact that she grabbed everything she could reach. 

The nursery had already been finished before they left, decorated in soft shades of green and blue, cream and white. The walls were split down horizontally, a cream colour on top, and a light sage green on the bottom, the sections separated by a border of repeating flowers in pastel pink and yellow. 

The crib -- white wood and light blue sheets -- stood in the middle of the room, and hanging above it was a circular canopy, a warm white decorated with fairy lights. Below the crib was a cream shag carpet. Against the wall perpendicular to the windows overlooking the backyard were a dresser, a changing table, and a cubby hole for toys and activities. In one of the corners was a large armchair, a side table and a floor lamp with the same flowers from the wall painted on the lampshade stood one one side of it, a white bookshelf on the other side. A massive stuffed teddy bear -- sent from the US by Jack -- was in another corner.

Despite her cheerful temper, the flight had left Dasha exhausted and cranky. Alex gave her a bottle and put her to bed, while Yassen brought their suitcases upstairs.

Dinner was simple -- homemade tagliatelle with a creamy mushroom sauce -- and was, as usual, followed with television. Halfway through a documentary about the drug trade, Alex shifted from where he lay in Yassen’s arms, gently placing Misha down on the floor, before straddling his lap, and wrapping his arms around Yassen’s neck, one of his hands softly massaging the muscles of his shoulders, while the other one played with the short blond hairs at the nape of the man’s neck.

“Yassen.” Alex whined into his ear, nipping at his jaw, right underneath his ear.

“Yes, my love?” Yassen could not quite hide his smug amusement. He knew, of course, what Alex wanted, but he also found pleasure in making the boy ask for it.

“Fuck me.” Alex ground down roughly, his arms tightening around Yassen’s neck.

“Really? In front of the cats?” Yassen smirked, but moved his hands down, and squeezed Alex’s ass, and, at the small moan, added: “You’re so needy.”

Alex bit into Yassen’s shoulder harsh enough to draw blood, but did not deny his neediness. 

Misha and Kazimir were smart, and had learned that when their dad’s started getting frisky, it was time for them to exit the room. Misha climbed into the cat condo, and Kazimir slipped out of a chip activated cat door to go hunt down whatever poor creature the cat could find.

They had barely managed to get their shirts off, when the baby monitor next to them started crying. Yassen could see the five stages of grief cross over Alex’s face, before finally landing on reluctant acceptance.

Yassen moved him off of his lap gently, and stood up with a soft kiss to Alex’s forehead, before running upstairs to check on the baby. Alex buttoned up his jeans, and drained the cup of tea that had stood forgotten on the coffee table.

“Blunt asked me to come in.” Alex started, curled up into Yassen’s side.

“When?” The man hummed, his fingers playing idly with dark blond hair.

“Monday morning.” 

“Your morning? Or mine?” Yassen snorted as Alex pinched his nipple in retaliation, and pulled the hand up, pressing kisses to each of the fingertips.

“My morning.” Alex yielded, and pressed his lips against Yassen’s collar bone. 

Misha was curled up in the crook of Alex’s legs, and Kazimir was laying at Yassen’s feet, watchful of the door.

Ms Wilkinson -- their next door neighbour -- came over the next day to meet the baby and congratulate the new parents. She brought booties, a hat, a cardigan that she had knitted from white wool, accented with blush ribbon and delicate lace. 

Ms Wilkinson was originally born as Galinka Yevgenievna Khmelnova, but had changed her name when she assumed a new identity. She had worked for the KGB, but had been recruited by the MI6 after the untimely and completely unnecessary death of her partner (and lover). Now, she was retired, and lived in a lovely townhouse in South Kensington, where she would feed her neighbour’s cats and water their plants when they were away. She was one of the few people that knew about Alex’s true job, and had even been let in on bits of Yassen’s professional past.

Alex had made tea, accompanied fresh biscuits Yassen had baked that morning, and they sat in the living room. Dasha was sitting on Ms Wilkinson’s lap, and Kazimir was obviously jealous. The cat only had a handful of people he liked, and the next door neighbour was one of them.

Slowly, they settled into a rhythm, and soon Dasha was crawling through the house, causing lighthearted havoc wherever she went. Yassen had joked that she looked like a soldier when she crawled, and claimed she would have done great in the razor-wire obstacle course on Malagosto. When the girl proceeded to shove a cat toy into her mouth, Yassen changed his mind.

Whenever they came by the small coffee shop on Liverpool street, the baristas were excited, and spent a good few minutes cooing over Dasha, who was enjoying the attention and met all of them with her wide smile.

When Dasha took her first steps -- unsteady but unguided -- Yassen was holding back tears of joy, and Alex only kept his teasing to a minimum. 

Jack came to visit, suitcase full of presents, and absolutely ecstatic at meeting the baby. Alex had gotten emotional as the two of them sat together in the kitchen. After Ian’s death, Jack had been his only family, and they both knew that it wasn’t the same. Alex thought he would never have a real family, but here he was.

Time flew by, and Alex stopped as he saw the date. Almost a year had passed since Dasha was born. Alex came home from a meeting with Blunt, and deposited the empty cup of coffee on the hallway table in the entrance hall. It was a problem for later. Quietly, he crept into the nursery, and leaned against the doorframe, watching.

Yassen was sitting in the armchair with Dasha -- who was holding her stuffed bear that she had named Bee -- balanced on his lap, while he read to her softly in Russian, the warm glow of the lamp giving the whole scene a dream-like quality. Misha slipped past Alex’s legs, and climbed up onto Yassen’s shoulders, settling around the back of his neck.

Alex quietly wiped a tear from his eye, a smile on his face. 

Yassen looked up, and returned the smile, his eyes bright with happiness.

Dasha followed his gaze, and smiled brightly.

“Dada.” She reached out, her hands grabbing at the air.

Alex walked over, and knelt by the armchair, pulling his baby up into his arms, and kissing Yassen in greeting.

“Hello, my love. How was work?” Yassen laid down the book on the side table, and patted his lap. Alex took the invitation and sat down, Dasha still in his arms.

“S’alright.” Alex buried his nose in Dasha’s blonde hair. “But Blunt was mad about the thing with the oil rig.”

On his last mission, Alex had been set to infiltrate a freighter that was suspected of transporting large quantities of drugs. When his cover was blown, Alex had had little choice but to destroy the freighter and steal a lifeboat. Unfortunately, part of the broken freighter had crashed into an unauthorized oil rig, and the entire thing had gone up in flames. There was a lot of damage.

“I’d have thought Blunt would have accepted by now that wherever you go, you are sure to cause irreparable damage.” Yassen teased.

When Alex stuck out his tongue, Dasha mimicked her father, and Yassen broke out into laughter. Alex and Dasha were quick to follow. 

Kazimir snuck into the room, thankfully without a half-dead creature between his teeth, and jumped onto the armchair, settling down onto the armrest.

Their family was all here.


End file.
